The Wooden Mile: Something Wickedly Weird, vol. 1

by Chris Mould, Chris Mould (Illustrator)

Overview

THE WOODEN MILE VOLUME 1: PIRATES…WEREWOLVES…LOST TREASURE AND A SPOOKY HOUSE

Something Wickedly Weird is most definitely here! Crampton Rock seems like a lovely seaside town…at least until dark. When eleven-year-old Stanley Buggles inherits a house from a mysterious uncle he didn't know he had, he also inherits a mystery and some strange and sinister new neighbors. The questions begin to pile up: Why are all the dogs in town three-legged? Why is no one on the streets after dark? Is it true that the man who runs the candy shop is a werewolf? And why do those shoemakers look an awful lot like pirates? With the help of Mrs. Carelli, a housekeeper, and a talking stuffed fish, Stanley begins to unravel the mysteries that haunt his great-uncle's death and have set their sights on him. A thrilling, spooky, and funny read, and the first installment of a kid-pleasing new series.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781429992428
Publisher:	Roaring Brook Press
Publication date:	09/30/2008
Series:	Something Wickedly Weird , #1
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	176
Lexile:	760L (what's this?)
File size:	3 MB
Age Range:	10 - 14 Years

About the Author

CHRIS MOULD went to art school at the age of sixteen. During this time, he did various jobs, from delivering papers to washing up and cooking in a kitchen. He has won the Nottingham Children's Book Award and been commended for the Sheffield. He loves his work and likes to write and draw the kind of books that he would have liked to have on his shelf as a boy. He is married with two children and lives in Yorkshire, England.

Winner of the Nottingham Children’s Book Award, CHRIS MOULD began studying art at the age of sixteen. He currently has over twenty books in print between the U.S. and the U.K., where he lives. His books include The Wooden Mile and The Icy Hand.

Read an Excerpt

The Wooden Mile

Something Wickedly Weird

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By Chris Mould

Roaring Brook Press

Copyright © 2007 Chris Mould
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-9242-8

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CHAPTER 1

Along the Wooden Mile

In a darkened industrial town, someone weaves unnoticed in and out of the alleyways until he finds the right doorway and forces a package through its mail slot.

This is not the very start of the story. It is simply a convenient place to begin. And you should be warned that when you delve into what has already happened and what lies ahead, you will find this a dark and twisted tale. Good fortune sits in wait around the corner, but grim misadventure lurks sneakily behind.

The package announced itself by landing heavily on the mat. It was addressed to Stanley Buggles. Inside was a short letter and a piece of folded cloth which, when unwrapped, revealed a large silvery-gray key. Not just any old key, mind you, but the key to a rusty, cobweb-covered old secret. A secret that wouldn't come out on its own but would need coaxing out of its cage like a frightened bird (as is often the way with secrets).

Stanley read the letter. He read it quietly to himself several times and then he read it out loud to the family who had gathered in the kitchen. No one could quite believe it, but there it was in black and white.

Then he held the key across both palms.

It was a strange-looking thing: big and bulky, like something that would open a castle gate, and yet intricately decorated with swirls and scrolls. He placed it back in the cloth, folded it tidily, and put it neatly back in the envelope with the letter.

Stanley Buggles. A sensitive little chap, his mother would say. A young wiry little fellow who could usually be found wandering the woods alone, climbing the gnarled old branches just to get a peek at a hawk's eggs, or lying in wait in the undergrowth so that he might catch sight of fox cubs.

Like all mothers, Stanley's longed to protect him from the perils of the outside world, but she knew she couldn't keep him wrapped up forever. And anyway, he was no pushover. Oh, no. If ever a kid could look after himself, here he was. Stanley could box like a champ. A proper little jackrabbit he was, and like all true champs he had the heart of a lion, along with a mane of stringy blond hair.

And while he had sat one afternoon in the hollowed-out trunk of a tree watching a kestrel circle over an open field, somebody three hundred miles away had sat typing the letter that would change his life forever.

Now, first things first. Stanley had no knowledge of his relative, who was, in fact, the perfect example of a long-lost great-uncle. Except that now he was a dead long-lost great-uncle, which pretty much spoiled Stanley's chances of getting to know him.

It was decided, when the time came, that Stanley would go on his own to visit the house. His family were far too busy to accompany him at present, and he was far too excited to delay the excursion any longer. He would be put on the train by his mother, Marjorie, and his stepfather, Tristan Fletcher, and he would be met by the housekeeper, Mrs. Carelli, at the other end. She would be staying on at the house and would take care of Stanley during the summer.

Mrs. Carelli informed them that she would be standing on the platform at Crampton Rock station. Mr. Fletcher had described Stanley in his letter so that she might know him when she saw him.

"He is eleven years old, with a pasty complexion and a skinny frame. He will most likely be carrying a large brown suitcase with the words Fletcher & Buggles Manufacturing on the side and looking as if he doesn't know where he is going."

"You can't miss him," Mr. Fletcher had scribbled at the bottom of his letter, explaining that Stanley was "not really ready for such an adventure at all."

But as things turned out, he was going to have one, and it was about to land on him with one enormous THUD.

Stanley stared through the window of the train's carriage. As the train thundered along the tracks, the whole world looked completely still. The sun blazed across yellow fields and Stanley wondered what the place would look like.

When the train eventually ground to a halt, Stanley could see a rickety handmade sign: THIS IS CRAMPTON ROCK. He looked around. From what he could see, the place was deserted and consisted only of the small platform itself. Standing just in front of the sign was a stout woman with large ruddy cheeks and a ridiculous hat. Stanley knew this was Mrs. Carelli. It must be her, because there was nobody else.

Stanley jumped down from his seat. He had the strangest feeling that despite its dull appearance, there was going to be something very different about this place.

"You can't just get off here, lad. This is Crampton Rock. You needs written permission to get off at Crampton Rock. 'Tis the law of the land. Let's see your ticket."

Stanley looked up to see a smug-looking train guard grinning at him. The ticket was in his hand. He held it up.

"I don't need written permission, sir. I'm a resident here. I own property. I have the paperwork." It was the first time Stanley had ever said this. At his side, he was clutching a file of legal documents, which he had held on to for the whole journey. He waved them at the man, who eyed them suspiciously.

"Mmmmmm, go on then. I don't believe yer, but I'll let yer go this time." He clipped the corner of the ticket without taking it from Stanley's hand and shuffled away.

As he wrestled his case down from the luggage rack, Stanley muttered under his breath, "I hope Mrs. Carelli is more pleased to see me!"

She was. Well, sort of.

"Hello, you must be Stanley," she called when she saw him step off the train. "I'll be looking after you at Candlestick Hall. We can talk later, but for now you'll have to rush along ... tide's coming in."

And before Stanley could say a word in return, she was walking away quickly on her little feet. Stanley followed on behind, dragging his suitcase awkwardly and wondering why the tide made any difference to anything.

As they walked out through the station exit, the ground in front of them suddenly disappeared. There was a sheer drop down to the sea. Dirt steps had been beaten into the earth and offered the only way down to the bottom. Right where the land met the water, there was a long, winding wooden footbridge that led, presumably, all the way out to Crampton Rock. It was hard to tell. There were several large rocks obscuring the view, and at one point the walkway disappeared through a cavelike opening.

"The Wooden Mile, we call it," said Mrs. Carelli. "When the tide's right up it'll be gone." The water was already dangerously close to the top.

Stanley dropped his suitcase and stood staring. "It's incredible."

"It's only planks, you know. Planks and nails, that's all," laughed Mrs. Carelli. "Ain't nothing new about planks and nails."

"No, I mean the water," explained Stanley. "I've never seen the sea before."

Immediately he thought of home. In the dark town that Stanley hailed from, the coast was a world away. By his bed lay a tattered old leather-bound book, with a page that had been thumbed a thousand times. It held a painting of a rocky beach filled with every kind of seabird. This was exactly the place he had longed to be.

"Well, you've seen it now, lad. Most likely you'll be fed up of it afore too long, just like the rest of us." And she blustered onward, treading the steps down to the water's edge. Stanley followed, dragging his suitcase, fumbling and tripping and at the same time, trying to take in the view of the sea.

His suitcase seemed to grow heavier. It crossed his mind to hurl it down to the bottom, but then he pictured some terrible accident with Mrs. Carelli as the victim and thought better of it.

Very soon they were at the bottom of the steps and making their journey across the wooden mile. The surface was wet and slippery, but Mrs. Carelli seemed to glide along. Perhaps she was used to it. It was only when they had passed through a tunneled cave and out into the open that the small island of Crampton Rock loomed down upon Stanley.

A crooked-looking fishing village with rickety houses and bent chimneys stared back at him. Filling the harbor and bobbing up and down on the waves was a crowd of wooden boats. He was able to pick out the spire of what appeared to be a small church, huddled in among the rest of the buildings. To its left, one place particularly stood out: a large house of blackened stone with a stepped roof. A scattering of little windows peered out like torchlights from the darkness of the brickwork.

"There you go, young Stanley. That's Candlestick Hall."

He stopped in his tracks. There it was, the place he had been waiting to see. The place he had dreamed of. There was something gloomy and dark about it, yet his heart drummed excitedly at the thought that the place was now his. It was nothing like he had expected: to start with, he could never have dreamed it would be so big.

A bird flew from the roof and drew his eye to something else. Something he didn't like. It landed on what he recognized as a gibbet, on a nearby hilltop. He had seen one in a book: a gallows, from which people were hanged in times past. This one held a rounded cage, and in it were the spindly skeletal remains of a single human life.

Mrs. Carelli glanced back and noticed him looking.

"Don't worry, Stanley," she said kindly. "'Tis only the remains of some rotten scoundrel."

Stanley shivered. "Who was it?" he asked.

"Pirates," she answered. "Sometimes we get pirates here. They pass by this way and we would rather they didn't. 'Tis only there to serve as a warning."

"Is it real?" asked Stanley. He had never seen a dead body before.

"Oh, he's real all right! From the tip of his hat to the soles of his shoes, he's real." She laughed and then, seemingly unconcerned, she turned and walked the last few boards up onto the harbor wall, where some of the villagers were waiting.

"But what happened to him? How did he ... die?"

Too late: Mrs. Carelli was already out of earshot and had begun talking to somebody.

Stanley looked back and watched the waves washing over the wooden walkway as it slowly began to disappear. There was no going back. Not now!

CHAPTER 2

Candlestick Hall

Stanley was about to step up to the harbor when a huge man in a cap and trenchcoat stopped him. He introduced himself as Lionel Grouse, Keeper of the Rock, and he was accompanied by Penelope Spoonbill, the Mayoress. She was dwarfed by his size.

"I'm afraid I'll need to see your papers, son. You can't step onto Crampton Rock until I've seen your deeds," announced Mr. Grouse.

This was the second time someone had stopped him, and he was still trying to get there.

Stanley put his suitcase down and fingered through the paperwork. He was panicking that he might have lost what he needed.

The water began to rise up around the soles of his shoes.

"I'm getting wet, sir. Is there a chance I can step up on to the wall to sort out my papers?"

"Sorry, lad, I need to see the documents first." Mr. Grouse smiled, and waited.

The water washed around Stanley's toes. He found his letter from Mrs. Carelli. That wasn't it. The water sloshed around his ankles. He found his copy of Admiral Swift's will. But that wasn't it. He began to grow worried. Had he dropped them? The water was rising more and more quickly. It would be up to his knees soon, and Stanley wasn't sure he would be able to swim.

Suddenly he held the document right there in his hand.

"Here," he said, relieved — and very wet. "Look at this."

The man held out his arm. "Welcome, Stanley," he said, and pulled him up onto dry land.

Stanley was stopped short in his tracks by a frail woman who clasped his arm tightly.

"Don't step out onto the moor, Stanley. It's no place for a young boy."

She was shuffled to one side by Mrs. Carelli. "Please, give the boy a chance." A handful of villagers herded the old woman to one side and Stanley, in his excitement, temporarily forgot her words.

He dropped his suitcase and ran swiftly to the house, scattering water as he ran and squishing in his soggy shoes. He turned the key in the door and stood in the hallway.

It was hard to take everything in all at once.

"Make yourself at home, Stanley," said Mrs. Carelli. "I shall be right there in the kitchen if you need me." She pointed to a long room at the far end of the house. "Put something dry on your feet, have a look around, and I'll make us something to eat. Oh, and don't forget, your suitcase is still sitting by the harbor. It'll not grow legs."

Stanley went to get it and returned again in two minutes flat.

He was simply overwhelmed by the size of Candlestick Hall. It was so grand, and he had only ever lived in a small house with tiny rooms.

It would take him the whole summer just to explore this place.

The hallway was bigger than his whole house back home. It was full of curious objects, most of which hung on the walls or stood in glass-fronted display cases. A moose head hung over the door and beside it was a stuffed monkey with its mouth wide open, showing sharp teeth. Below, a suit of armor stood staring back at him.

There was a sitting room at the front, looking down on the harbor. The fireplace was so big Stanley was able to stand inside it. The bones of some huge fish were hanging over the mantelpiece.

At the back of the sitting room, a short dark passage took him back out into the hallway and he was back at the staircase. Halfway up it there was a landing, with a tall window. Stanley ran to the window and looked out across the harbor to take in the view of the water. It was a rare sight for anybody, but for a boy who had never seen any more water than you could get into a bathtub, it was unbelievable. He went to the ledge and watched the waves roll back and forth.

Upstairs was much the same. Room after room after room, some furnished, some empty. Most with the shutters pulled over the windows, sitting in darkness with blades of light piercing through the screens and cutting across the bare floors.

Stanley chose a room at the front where he could watch the sea from his bed. He opened his suitcase and scattered some of his things across the bed to leave his mark, then he continued exploring.

One room held him captive. At first it seemed to be just a room full of cupboards. But when Stanley pulled open one of the drawers, it was laid out neatly with every possible species of bird's egg, labeled in beautiful handwriting.

Female Field Cricket

Hornet

Staghorn Beetle

Red Spined Body Bug

House Spider

House Spider

He opened another. Butterflies. And another. Shells. On it went: insects, animal bones, fossils, old letters, drawings, plans of the house. Here he would spend some time. He knew that.

After a while he returned to the ledge and watched the sea until Mrs. Carelli called him for supper.

There were two places set at a small table in the kitchen. A large pie was waiting for him. He suddenly realized that he was hungry: he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Stanley sat down and when Mrs. Carelli joined him he asked, "Can you tell me about Admiral Swift?"

She seemed taken aback. "Oh, your Great-uncle Bartholomew. Well, there ain't much to tell really. He was retired from the navy. Spent most of his life out on the water. He even died out there, minding his own business sitting peacefully in his fishing boat. Shame that was."

"How did he die?" asked Stanley. Mrs. Carelli sighed and said some other time she'd tell him, but that now he wasn't to worry himself with morbid details and should eat up his pie and settle in.

Bivalve Mollusc

Limpet

Shell

But worry about morbid details he did, and after supper Stanley decided it was time to explore the garden and possibly visit the churchyard and the Admiral's grave. He'd seen the churchyard in the back when he'd been exploring the upstairs rooms earlier.

"Make sure you're back before dark comes in now, Stanley," Mrs. Carelli said. "Crampton Rock is no place for youngsters after the light goes. I'll be waiting for you."

Stanley promised and then stepped out through the front door and headed toward the back under the arched buttress.

The garden was mostly grassy and without borders. There was a line of yew trees running from top to bottom, with their foliage tidily clipped into a circular shape. A high brick wall framed the lawn, and at the very far end was a gateway leading to the moor. He went closer, stared at the overgrown hinges, and realized the gate had long been out of use. In the distance Stanley could see crooked, hand-painted signs dotted across the landscape.

Stay off the Moor. You have no reason to pass this way.

He remembered the words of the old woman on his arrival.

"And on this rock I will build my church." This was engraved on the large stone outside the gates to the church. It was surrounded by old and crumbling gravestones. The grass was long and untended, and the door looked to be bolted shut. A low stone wall ran around the outside. The gates were unhinged and leaned awkwardly at an angle. Stanley crept over the wall and began to read the inscriptions on the gravestones.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Wooden Mile by Chris Mould. Copyright © 2007 Chris Mould. Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page,
1 - Along the Wooden Mile,
2 - Candlestick Hall,
3 - The Pike,
4 - A Slice of Cake,
5 - Randall Flynn,
6 - Old Sea Dogs,
7 - Through the Telescope,
8 - A Can of Worms,
9 - Dreaming,
10 - Making Plans,
11 - The North-East Needle,
12 - The Pike Again,
Copyright Page,